


say yes to heaven

by jouissant



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Rimming, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: Carwood had never had champagne before France.





	say yes to heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whip_pan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whip_pan/gifts).



> I can't believe Spit As Lube is a tag! Feels appropriate for Ron tbh.

Carwood had never had champagne before France, the time a bunch of the boys had got plastered on it thinking it was some fancy French soda pop, which was a story he'd since heard Nixon tell at least ten times to other officers with a twinge of snobbish disbelief that rubbed Carwood up the wrong way. 

He liked Nixon. It wasn't that he didn't. Besides, Winters liked him enough that if Carwood had felt differently he'd have assumed he was doing something wrong on that basis alone. But it was the distance Nixon's tone implied that bothered him, that inch or so of remove. _Can't tell their Coca-Cola from their Veuve Clicquot, these enlisted boys._ It was the sort of thing that might make a man feel lousy, if he was susceptible. Carwood wasn't, but someone else might be. Nixon didn't think about things like that. 

Now he was sitting beside Ron Speirs in a jeep in Berchtesgaden, and Easy Company was in possession of more champagne than Carwood had ever seen or would ever see again. He himself was in possession of at least a bottle and a half, between his belly and his liver and the green glass bottleneck he clutched now. This bottle was his second, and it had been full what seemed like just a minute ago. Just a minute ago Ron had popped the cork with a hoot of laughter that made Carwood grin, and then he'd passed the bottle over dripping with foam. 

"All yours," Ron said, and licked his fingers. 

Oh dear, Carwood thought. 

Wanting a man wasn't altogether surprising. Wanting Ron wasn't either, not precisely, except for the fact that it felt as though he hadn't wanted anything, any _one_ this way for a long time. When Ron looked at him in the convent after Foy his gaze had felt like a balm, though at the time Carwood decided he'd have been pleased to be gazed at by anyone in that wonderful place, warm and dry and candlelit, and he didn't flatter himself that Ron hadn't felt the same way about doing the gazing. He felt warm this afternoon the way he had in Rachamps, only now he'd had the benefit of a longer thaw beforehand. And maybe that was the difference, he thought. Back then he'd been too in awe of being alive to think about wanting anything but a pew to stretch out on and a roof over his head, Ron Speirs notwithstanding. 

Ron Speirs, who was gazing at him again. Gazing at him when Carwood was drunk, when Ron was drunk, when he'd said Carwood's name up on that balcony earlier with an inflection Carwood was still thinking of hours later and down a mountain. 

"Captain," said Carwood on impulse. Blame the champagne. "When you get a minute—" 

"Yeah?" 

"I, uh. I've got something we ought to go over." 

Ron was smiling. Carwood could see him wondering whether or not he was being serious. Either way he was going to keep the grin on his face. "Yeah?" he asked again. 

"Yeah." 

"Go over," said Ron. 

"Yeah," said Carwood. 

"Like—like what?" 

Carwood hadn't thought far enough beyond Ron's mouth to be ready with a lie. He cleared his throat. "You want to go now? Sir?" 

"Can't wait?" 

Carwood bit his lip. "No," he said. 

"I'm going to lose my jeep to some joyriding private, Lieutenant," Ron said. "And then where'll we be?" 

"If you'd rather not," Carwood started. Even as he said it he could see that Ron half knew it was all pretense. But he was curious. He had a hold of something, or thought he did, and he'd tug on it now inch by inch until it unravelled. 

"No," said Ron, smiling wider. "I'd rather." 

He jerked the jeep into gear then, and reversed with a screech of brakes that sent men scrambling to give the vehicle its berth. When he turned and gunned it back toward their billet Carwood realized he'd miscalculated, and badly; he'd counted on the length of the walk to sort out what exactly he was thinking of doing and whether or not he meant to go through with it. To drink more champagne, for starters—to this end, he necked a couple of mouthfuls now— and to stumble against Ron, to see if he leaned in or stepped wide to give Carwood space. There were rumors about Ron—not only the sort they'd talked about in Rachamps but darker whispers still, and Carwood had often wondered what sort of world they lived in that a score of German lives earned bolder talk than who Ron Speirs had slouched into the shadows with behind a tent in Georgia one time. 

"Some looie from C Company," said some people. "Captain Nixon," said some others, but Carwood thought they just got put together because they made a matched set if you looked quickly enough. He'd mistaken Nix for Ron sometimes at a glance, before he learned to pick the set of Ron's shoulders out of a crowd at a hundred paces. Before he'd seen a hell of a lot of silhouettes in the snow, over and over like those aircraft recognition manuals. 

"My office?" Ron said, when they arrived. 

And hell, his office? But Carwood couldn't very well say the bedroom. So they shut themselves into Ron's office. He sat on the edge of the desk, having cleared a space of papers, and ran a hand back through his hair. Out of the sun you could see how flushed he was, how tanned. He was still damned well smiling, and rubbing his palms off on his trousers over and over.

"Have a seat," Ron said. He had a couple of chairs in his office, leathery and Teutonic and very far away. Carwood wasn't going to have a seat. 

"Lipton?" Ron said. 

"You drunk?" Carwood asked, all in a rush. 

"Uh huh," said Ron. 

He leaned back. He looked rumpled, his shirt open at the neck. He was brown all down his chest too, and Carwood knew that without seeing it. He'd had his shirt off lately as much as he could, they all had, as though they could soak their very bones in sunlight and chase the chill of Belgium out for good that way. Carwood had burned and then browned up light as a biscuit. Not at all like Ron. 

Carwood cleared his throat. "How drunk?" 

"Pretty drunk, Lieutenant," Ron said with a bit of a slur for effect. 

"Okay," said Carwood. "Me too." 

And with that, he stepped up and wedged between Ron's knees, allowing no more than the space of a quarter of a minute for the horrified rebuttal that never came. All the rest of his life he'd remember the look on Ron's face—not of shock, no, but of holiday-variety delight, like Carwood was under a Christmas tree. He put his hands on Ron's shoulders, leaned in and kissed him. He tasted—like nothing at all, really, but his mouth was hot, and he opened right away and slid his tongue into Carwood's mouth with a moan. Carwood leaned further forward, and Ron sat up to meet him and wrapped an arm around his waist. He grabbed a fistful of the back of Carwood's jacket. 

"You and me?" Ron asked when they came up for air. He looked like he was about to laugh. 

"What's the matter with it?" 

"Hell, nothing's the matter with it. Just—you and me, Lipton?" 

"Carwood," said Carwood. "Please." 

"Carwood," said Ron. He laughed and ran his hands along Carwood's flanks, looking him up and down as though trying to reconcile what he was given leave to touch with _whom_. Once he had, Ron didn't waste time. He yanked Carwood's shirt out of its tuck and ducked his head to mouth messily at his skin the moment it was bare. Carwood cursed under his breath and fought the urge to fold at the waist reflexively, a reaction that was only worsened by the application of Ron's teeth and his fingers at Carwood's belt buckle. 

"Dammit," muttered Carwood again and shucked his jacket off, tossing it in the direction of one of the chairs. 

He undid his shirt for good measure, since apparently Ron was taking care of his trousers. He was half hard already, and in a minute Ron would see him, look at him with that singular intensity Carwood had so come to appreciate in the months since Foy. The thought was enough to get him all the way there. 

Ron dragged his briefs down with two hands on Carwood's hips and chased them with his mouth, kissing the scar tissue at Carwood's groin, the knotted whitish skin he generally tried to avoid looking at or touching other than gingerly when he washed. When Ron saw Carwood's cock he moaned and licked his lips, a gesture that was at once ridiculous in its suggestiveness and utterly genuine. 

"I want you to fuck me," Ron said. 

Carwood coughed. "Excuse me?" 

"Fuck me," Ron said. "C'mon." 

He appeared to be serious. He hopped off of the desk and undid his own belt, and was, as usual, about a mile past Carwood already. He sometimes thought Ron operated on several levels simultaneously, and that the moments he seemed distant or strange were simply those in which he'd gotten too far ahead and had to remember to double back to the rest of them. Now he'd slipped his ODs down and half turned his back on Carwood, which only served to solidify the image Carwood had in his mind's eye. 

"What, here? Over the desk?" 

"Unless you want to get dressed and try and get upstairs without running into anyone." He turned back and reached for Carwood, who let Ron pull him close and grind their hips together. "You look like you've had me already," Ron said. "You might as well." 

"Jesus," Carwood said. His heart was thudding ferociously. He ran his hands down to the small of Ron's back to clutch at his ass through his shorts. "Have you got anything? Vaseline or anything?" He felt as if his lips were going numb. 

Ron took him by the chin and kissed him again. "Mm. Maybe somewhere. Or you could use your mouth." 

He said it offhandedly, as though it wouldn't make Carwood double take, make desire and nerves swoop through his belly. 

"What is it?" Ron asked, and Carwood realized he was boggling. 

"You're crazy," he said. 

"Maybe so," Ron replied. 

He shrugged, and for the sliver of a moment his smile respooled again, tightening the corners of his eyes. Carwood didn't like it a bit. He reached into Ron's undone trousers and cupped him through the fabric of his underwear, squeezed gently until he saw Ron lick his lips again. 

"Turn around, huh?" 

Ron did. He put his palms down flat on the surface of the desk and planted his feet and let Carwood take his shorts down, trying as he did to pretend he wasn't shaking from top to toe. Exposed, Ron was tan all over, and that shocked a laugh out of Carwood, brief and wrenching and nearly painful, because what it meant was that somewhere along the way Ron had seen fit not only to go about shirtless but stark naked besides. Immediately Carwood saw him lithe on some riviera, lounging on a bright towel, cantering down to a tidebreak to swim and coming back bracing with salt. 

His skin, Carwood was sure, would be scoured, clean and warm, and it was this image that made him kneel and put his mouth on Ron, the ghost of lips first and then his teeth. Ron moaned again and slid his booted feet further apart, his voice and their breathing and the scrape of Ron's soles over the floorboards seeming dangerously loud.

Carwood had never done this before. He'd sucked a fellow off and had a fellow suck him, and he'd done the whole dance over with a girl. He'd fucked however he'd understood it was possible to fuck, at least when it came to the basics. But not this. He hadn't ever thought about it. Yet it seemed, in light of victory, as essential as champagne. It went to Carwood's head just the same. He decided he could crouch here all day long and lap at Ron and stay drunk. It was totally ridiculous. He hadn't even seen Ron's cock yet. Here and there he found a place Ron was still pale and when he did he kissed it, brain abuzz with bubbles and the memory of sunlight and the way Ron smelled. 

At last Ron spoke again. "C'mere," he said, voice low enough to slip into Carwood's thoughts. 

He got up shakily, knees sore and creaky from the hardwoods. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ron reached back and got Carwood by the belt loop and dragged him forward, Carwood shuffling, pants shoved down. His cock was flush against Ron's backside where he'd left it slick with spit. 

"I want you," Ron said. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, shit. Come on." 

"Been awhile?" Carwood asked. 

He was trying to sound like himself, not breathless or histrionic, which was incidentally rather close to how he felt. He'd taken hold of himself and was looking at the toast-colored curve of Ron's ass, and now he was touching it, running his fingers between Ron's cheeks and pressing into him. To Carwood's surprise, he yielded. 

"England," Ron said, shifting back against Carwood's fingers.

"With men?" 

"Men," Ron said. "Women." 

"And not since?" 

Ron let his head loll towards the desktop. "No. Come on, it's good like this. Come on." 

"Fuck, Ron," said Carwood, half because he was rubbing the head of his cock against Ron's hole and half because the thought of Ron holding out since England did for him the way nothing had since—well, he didn't know when. That was something to think about, but he couldn't now. Ron was arching back against him. 

He hadn't ever imagined how Ron would fuck, which was what made the pair of them bent over the desk so astonishing in the first place. If he had imagined it, he was sure he wouldn't have pictured it like this. He was aiming for gentle—gentlemanly, the way you ought to do things even if you were drunk. Got himself partway inside and what did Ron do but jerk back against him with a hand braced on the edge of the desk for leverage. Carwood would have yelled if there wasn't that thrill of fear that sat back in his throat and gagged him. As it was he made a strangled noise, and Ron moaned again, indulgently, the sound you'd make sinking into a bath, or baring your feet to cool grass. 

"Okay?" Carwood gasped. 

He didn't seem as though he should be okay, but trust Ron to take his pleasure this way, in a manner that looked heedless and irresponsible but somehow managed not to be. 

He was nearly flat on the desk, his head turned to one side. He had a look on his face of the utmost satisfaction, as though he'd been seeking this precise feeling for a very long time. His mouth was half open. He nodded belatedly, and Carwood reached for him without really thinking about it and sank his fingers into Ron's hair. He was still wearing his shirt, the hem riding up further and further up his back. Carwood curled his free hand around Ron's left hip and drew out of him inch by inch. Ron cursed to feel him go, his hand groping as if to catch hold of Carwood and force him back. 

"I've got you," said Carwood. 

He felt moved to say the words again, to mutter them over and over as he yanked Ron back and shifted his weight forward on top of him. Ron groaned. The edge of the desk dug into his belly. Carwood could feel Ron's furious pulse beneath his fingers. He had gone quiet; there was just his breathing, hard enough to agitate piles of papers that Carwood thought about with an amusement close to hysteria—Winters and Sink and whoever else up the line shuffling through them without a thought for what they'd been through, and Ron looking on smug as a cat. Carwood leaned down so that his forehead was resting on Ron's brow. Their eyes came nearly level, too close to focus in on one another but Carwood tried through the haze of lashes anyway.

There was a petulant twinge of muscles in his low back, and he tried to stretch out of it but the movement only pressed him closer against Ron, the long curve of his spine against Carwood's sternum, and he thought suddenly that they'd never been closer than now, him and Ron. He wondered if it would have felt like this in a foxhole, shells whistling by them, a mouthful of dirt, Ron's ribs greenstick spry beneath him and moving like a bellows. 

"Touch me," Ron said. 

There was an upward cant there, a question mark. Not giving orders now. In a bed, in another world, Carwood might tease back. He might tell Ron to ask nicely, or in a harder mood, to beg. But now he only complied, dropped his hand and wrapped it firmly around Ron's cock, skated around and down to the base of him to feel for his balls, heavy and still half shrouded in his ODs. He was tender with them out of courtesy and in contrast to the hard fucking, and Ron made a noise high in his throat implying he was grateful. And Carwood kept moving until Ron went limp beneath him and took it, and another man might feel less like he was giving a gift but he could be no other man, could only be Carwood Lipton, drunk on French soda and half to three-quarters in love. 

Ron spent over his hand with his teeth clenched. Carwood had grabbed him by both hips and held him still and that was what had made him do it, and when he did Ron started laughing again, and when Carwood was finished Ron slipped up and off of him and dropped right down onto the floor like his knees had given out.

"Jesus," said Carwood, diving after. 

Under the desk Ron had propped himself on a hand and was tugging at his shirtfront with the other. "I'm hot," he said.

Carwood found himself reaching for Ron's collar, undoing the shirt with the thought to save the buttons. He was irritated for no particular reason. It was all too late, undressing Ron. Too much an afterthought, and anyway his hands were shaking. Ron caught them up. He was still laughing. He laughed against Carwood's palms as he kissed them, one and then the other.

"Is it so damn funny?" Carwood sputtered. 

Ron clucked and hooked his forefinger into Carwood's shirt pocket. "No," he said. "It's very serious." 

He was smiling softly. He pulled Carwood to him and kissed him deeply: for champagne, Carwood thought, for the sun in Austria and the end of a war. And knowing Ron, for the beginning of another.


End file.
